PR 59C4 


.C6 


1893 




\ 



:i;iss Pl?5^H 



; . Qg 






^3 

NTRI) liY 



\ 



u 



% 







The 
Countess Kathleen 



\ 



7 




CUCHULLIN FIGHTING THE WAVES. 



THE 

Countess Kathleen 

And Various Legends aiiJ Lyrks 

by 

W. B.YEATS. 



He who tastes a crust cf bread 
tastes ali the stars and all 
(he heavens '^ 

Paracelsus ab Hohcnheim 



CAMEO SERIES 



BOSTON : ROBERTS BROS. 
LONDON : T. FISHER UNWIN 






W. L. Shoemaker 
7 S '06 



THIS PLAY 
TO 

MY FRIEND, 

Pli«» Uilattbr (^0nn^i 

AT WHOSE SUGGESTION 

IT WAS 

PLANNED OUT AND BEGUN 

SOME 

THREE YEARS AGO. 



Preface. 



^ 



"T^HE greater number of the poems in this 
book, as also in " The Wanderings of 
Oisin," are founded on Irish tradition. The 
chief poem is an attempt to mingle personal 
thought and feeling with the beliefs and cus- 
toms of Christian Ireland ; whereas the longest 
poem in my earlier book endeavoured to set 
forth the impress left on my imagination by 
the Pre-Christian cycle of legends. The Chris- 
tian cycle being mainly concerned with contend- 
ing moods and moral motives needed, I thought, 
a dramatic vehicle. The tumultous and heroic 
Pagan cycle, on the other hand, having to do with 
vast and shadowy activities and with the great 
impersonal emotions, expressed itself naturally — 
or so I imagined — in epic and epic-lyric measures. 
No '" ic method seemed sufficiently minute and 



8 Preface. 

subtle for the one, and no dramatic method elastic 
and all-containing enough for the other. 

Ireland having a huge body of tradition be- 
hind her in the depths of time, will probably 
draw her deepest literary inspiration from this 
double fountain-head if she ever, as is the 
hope of all her children, make for herself a 
great distinctive poetic literature. She has 
already many moving songs and ballads which 
are quite her OAvn. "The Countess Kathleen," 
like ''The Wanderings of Oisin," is an attempt 
to unite a more ample method to feeling not 
less national, Celtic, and distinctive. 

A number of the " legends and lyrics " ori- 
ginally appeared in The National Observer^ and 
I have to thank the proprietors for leave to 

reprint them here. 

W. B. YEATS. 



Contents. 



The Countess Kathleen 

To the Rose upon the Rood of Time 

Fergus and the Druid 

The Rose of the World 

The Peace of the Rose 

The Death of Cuchullin 

The White Birds 

Father Gilligan . 

Father O'Hart 

When You are Old 

The Sorrow of Love 

The Ballad of the Old Foxhunter 

A Fairy Song .... 



93 
95 
98 

99 
100 
106 
108 
III 
114 

115 
116 
119 



lo Contents. 

PAGE 

The Pity of Love 120 

The Lake Isle of Innisfree . . . .121 

A Cradle Song 122 

The Man who Dreamed of Fairy Land . . 123 

Dedication of Irish Tales 126 

The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner . 128 

When You are Sad 129 

The Two Trees 130 

They went forth to the Battle, but they 

always Fell . . . . , . .132 

An Epitaph 134 

Apologia Addressed to Ireland in the 

Coming Days 135 

Notes 139 



The Countess Kathleen. 

" The sorrowful arc dumb for thee" 
The Lament of Morian Shehone for Mary Bourke. 



H 



The Countess Kathleen. 



AN IRISH DRAMA. 






PERSONS. 

Shemus Rua, Keeper of an hostelry known as " The Lady's 

Head:' 
Teig, His son^ aged fourteen. 
Maurteen, a gardener. 
Michael, A servant. 
A Herdsman. 
Kevin, A young hard. 
Peasants^ ^c. 

Tivo demons, disguised throughout as merchants. 
The Countess Kathleen. 
OONA, Her foster-mother. 
Mary, Wife of Shemus Rua. 
Peasant ivomen, ^c. 
Angelical beings, spirits and fairies. 

The Scene is laid in Ireland in the Sixteenth Century. 
SCENE I. 

{^The Inn of Shemus Rua ; a wood of oak^ hazel 
and quicken trees ts seen through the window^ 
half hidden in vaponr and twilight. The door 



14 The Countess Kathleen. 

zs in the centre of the wall at the back. The 
wmdotv IS at the right side of it^ and a little 
catholic shrine hangs at the other. To the right 
is a pantry door and to the left a dim fire of 
bogioood. Mary watches Teig who fills a pot 
with water. He stops as if to listen^ and spills 
some of the water ^ 

Mary. 
You are all thumbs. 

Teig. 

How yon dog bays, 

And how the grey hen flutters in the coop. 

Strange things are going up and down the land 

These famine times. By Tubber-vanach cross 

roads, 

A woman met a man with ears spread out, 

And they moved up and down like wings of 

bats. 

Mary. 
Shemus stays late. 

Teig. 
By Carrick-orus churchyard, 
A herdsman met with one who had no mouth, 
Nor ears, nor eyes — his face a wall of flesh. 
He saw him plainly by the moonlight. 



I 



The Countess Kathleen. 15 

Mary [^oi'ng- over to the little slirine'\. 

Virgin, 
Bring Shemus safe home from the hateful forest ; 
Save Shemus from the wolves — Shemus is 

reckless ; 
And save him from the demons of the woods 
Who have crept out and pace upon the roads 
Deluding dim-eyed souls now newly dead, 
And those alive who h^^e gone crazed with 

famine. 
Save him, dear Mary. 

\_A knock at the door. She kneels and looks 
through the keyhole.'\ 

Who is knocking ? 

Shemus \ivithoii,t'\. 

Shemus. 

Teig. 
May he bring better food than yesterday ; 
No one dines merrily on a carrion crow. 

[Mary opens the door^ and Shemus comes m with 
a dead wolf on his shoulder.'] 



1 6 The Countess Kathleen. 

Mary. 
You are late home. You have been lounging 
And chattering with some one, idling somehow. 
You know dreams trouble me, and how I pray, 
Yet all day you lie sweating on the hill side, 
Or stand else in the guttei; with all passers. 
Gilding your tongue with the calamitous times. 

Shemus. 
You'd rail my head off. There's good dinner 
here. 

\Thro%ving the wolf on to the floor ^ 

A lean wolf's more than a lean carrion crow. 
I searched all day : the mice, and rats, and 

hedgehogs 
Seem to be dead, and I could hardly hear 
A wing moving in all the famished woods, 
Though the dead leaves and clauber of four 

forests 
Cling to my foot-sole. I came home despairing, 
And found sniffing the floor in a bare cow-house 
This young wolf here. The cross-bow brought 

him down. 

Mary. 
Praised be the saints. 



The Countess Kathleen. i^ 

[After a pause."] 

Why did the house dog bay ? 

Shemus. 
He heard me coming and smelt food — what else. 
What food's within ? 

Mary. 

A pan half full of milk, 
Some oatmeal in a corner of the bag. 

Shemus. 
And we have Madge, the hen. 

Teig. 

Bog-wood were softer ; 
She has grown sleepy with old age. 

Mary. 

Before you came. 
She made a great noise in the hencoop, Shemus. 

Shemus. 
The dog scared her. Well we'll not starve at 
once. 

\_Hangs his crossbow iip^ and then catching sight 
of the shrine paicses."] 

Red briony berries in a little jar. 

And ivy green as a drake's poll — no use. 



iS The Countess Kathleen. 

Why, dame, we'll all be dead soon ; \^Pointing to 

the shrine'] she's asleep. 
I passed by Margaret Nolan's : for nine days 
Her mouth was green from eating dock and 

nettles. 
Now they have waked her. 

Mary. 

I shall go the next. 

Our parents' cabins bordered the same field. 

Shemus. 
God and God's mother nod and sleep — at last 
They have grown weary of the prayers and 

candles. 
And Satan pours the famine from his bag, 
He does not nod, nor sleep, nor droop his eye- 
lids ; 
I am half mindful to go pray to him 
To cover all this table with red gold. 
Teig, will you dare me to it ? 

Teig. 

Not I, father. 
Mary. 
O Shemus hush, maybe your mind might pray 
Though your mouth prayed not. Think upon 

your soul. 
What made that noise ? 



The Countess Kathleen. 19 

Teig. 

Two horned owls made it ; 
They have been blinking on the window-sill 
Since father came. I had gone softly over 
To lift the crossbow down and shoot at them, 
When father's loud voice made them flutter off. 

[Shemus begins imfastening the feet of the wolf 
from a branch to which they had been tied!\ 

Mary. 
That's quicken wood. 

Shemus. 

Yes, wife. He swayed about 
And so I tied him to a quicken branch, 
And slung him from my shoulder. 

\_He takes np the branch to throw it on thefire.'] 
Mary [^taking it from him']. 

Shemus ! Shemus ! 
What, would you burn the blessed quicken 

wood ? 
A spell to ward off demons and ill fairies. 
You know not what the owls were that peered in, 
For evil wonders live in this old wood, 



26 The Countess Kathleejj. 

And they can show in what shape please them 

best. 
And we have had no milk to leave o' nights 
To keep our own good people kind to us. 
I fear the wood things, Shemus. 

Shemus. 

Famine fear 

Addles your mind. I'll chew the lean dog-wolf 

With no less mirth if, chaired beside the hearth, 

Rubbing its hands before the bogwood flame, 

Be Pooka, Sowlth, or demon of the pit. 

l_A step outside.'] 

Mary \listening\ 

Who knows what evil you have brought to us. 
I fear the wood things, Shemus. 

\She hides the wolf in the pantry. A knock at 
the door. The shrine falls front the wall.'] 

Do not open. 

\_She points to the fallen shrine.] 

See ! see ! 

Shemus. 

I told you that the nail was loose. 



The Countess Kathleen. 21 

[He opens the door. Two merchants stand 
without. They have bands of gold round their 
foreheads^ and each carries a hag upon his 
shoulder.'] 

First Merchant. 
This is an inn ? 

Shsmus. 
Aye, aye, " The Lady's Head," 
Called from the Countess Kathleen — her face, sir, 
Is painted in four colours on the sign. 

Si<:coND Merchant. 
And have you food for two tired merchants, 
here? 

Shemus. 
Sir, such rude victuals as the forest gives. 
Come in, kind sirs — for a full score of evenings 
This threshold, worn away by many feet, 
Has been passed only by the snails, and birds, 
And our own footfalls. 

Mary. 

Sirs, do not come in, 
We have no food, none even for ourselves. 



22 The Countess Kathleen. 

First Merchant. 
A wolf lies on the third shelf in the cupboard. 

[^They enter.'] 

Shemus. 
Forgive her, gentles. She's not used to quality, 
And is half mad with being much alone. 
How did you know I'd taken a young wolf ? 
Fine wholesome food though somewhat strong 
i' the flavour. 

\_Thc Second Merchant sits down by the Jire 
and begins I'tcbbing his hands. The First 
stands looking at the quicken bough on the 
chair.'] 

First Merchant. 
I would rest here. The night is somewhat 

chilly, 
And my feet footsore going up and down 
From land to land and nfetion unto nation. 
The fire burns dimly ; feed it with this bough. 

[Shemus throws the bough into the fire. The 
First Merchant sits down in the chair. The 
Merchants' chairs are on each side of the fire. 



The Countess Kathleen. 23 

The table is between them. Each lays his bag 
before him on the table. The night has closed 
in somewhat^ and the main light comes from 
the fire.'] 

Mary. 
What have you in the bags ? 

Shemus. 

Gentles, forgive. 
Women grow curious and feather-thoughted 
Through being in each others company 
More than is good for them. 

First Merchant. 

Our bags are full 
Of golden pieces to buy merchandize. 

\_They empty the bags on the table. It is covered 
with the gold pieces. They shine in the fire- 
light. Mary goes to the door of the pantry., and 
watches the Merchants, mnttering to herself ^^ 

Teig. 
These be great gentlemen. 



24 The Countess Kathleen. 

First Merchant \_drawmg a stone bottle from 
the depth of his bag]. 

Come round the bogwood, 
And here is wine more fragrant than all roses. 

Second Merchant. 
Wine that can hush asleep the petty war 
Of good and evil, and awake instead 
A scented flame flickering above that peace 
The bird of prey knows well in his deep heart. 

Shemus \bringiug drinking cups']. 
I do not understand you, but your wine 
Sets me athirst — its praise made your eyes 

lighten. 
May I, too, taste it ? 

First Merchant. 

Aye, come drink and drink, 
I bless all mortals who drink long and deep. 
My curse upon the salt-strewn road of monks. 

[Teig and Shemus sit down at the table and 
drink.'] 



The Countess Kathleen. 25 

Teig. 
You must have seen rare sights and done rare 
things. 

First Merchant. 
What think you of the master whom we serve ? 

Shemus. 
I have grown weary of all life, merchants, 
Because I do not serve him. 

First Merchant. 

More of this 
When we have eaten. 

Shemus. 

Boil that dog-wolf, Mary. 

Mary \coming towards the fire']. 
The water will not boil for you. 

\^The First Merchant whispers to the water.'] 

First Merchant. 

It boils. 

Mary. 
I will not cook for you. 

B 



26 The Countess Kathleen. 

Shemus. 

Mary's gone mad. 

[Teig and Shemus sta7id up and stagger about.'] 

Shemus. 
That wine's the suddenest wine man ever tasted. 

Mary. 
I will not cook for you. You are not human. 
Before you came two horned owls peered at us ; 
The dog bayed, and the tongue of Shemus 

maddened. 
When you came in the Virgin's blessed shrine 
Fell from its nail, and when you sat down here 
You poured out wine as the wood sheogues do 
When they'd entice a soul out of the world. 
Why did you come to us ? Was not death near ? 

First Merchant. 
We are two merchants. 

Mary. 

If you be not demons 
Go and give alms among the starving poor, 
You seem more rich than any under the moon. 



The Countess Kathleen. 27 

First Merchant. 
If we knew where to find deserving poor, 
We would give alms. 

Mary. 
Then ask of Father John. 

First Merchant. 
We know the evils of mere charity, 
And would devise a more considered way. 
Let each man bring one piece of merchandize. 

Mary. 
The starving have no piece of merchandize. 

First Merchant. 
We do but ask what each man has. 

Mary. 

Merchants, 
Their swine and cattle, fields and implements, 
Are sold and gone. 

First Merchant. 

They have not sold all yet, 

Mary. 
What have they ? 



28 The Countess Kathleen. 

First Merchant. 
They have still their souls. 

[Mary shrieks. He beckons to Teig and 
Shemus.] 

Come hither. 
See you these little golden heaps ? Each one 
Is payment for a soul. From charity 
We give so great a price for those poor flames. 
Say to all men we buy men's souls — away. 

\_They do not stir.'] 

This pile for you and this for you. 

Shemus. 

We go. 

[Teig and Shemus go out.] 

Mary \_kneeling]. 

Destroyers of souls, may God destroy you quick. 

First Merchant. 
No curses injure the immortal demons. 



The Countess Kathleen. 29 

Mary. 

You shall at last dry like dry leaves, and hang 
Nailed like dead vermin to the doors of God. 

First Merchant. 
Woman, you shall be ours. This famine shall 

not cease. 
You shall eat grass, and dock, and dandelions, 
And fail till this stone threshold seem a wall, 
And when your hands can scarcely drag your 

body 
We shall be near you. 

[To Second Merchant.] 

Bring the food out. 

[The Second Merchant brings the bag of meal 
from the t)antry.'\ 

Burn it. 

[Mary faints.'] 
Now she has swooned, our faces go unscratched ; 
Bring me the grey hen too. 



30 The Countess Kathleen. 

[The Second Merchant goes out through the 
door and returns with the hen strangled. He 
flings it on the floor. While he is away the 
First Merchant makes up the flre. The 
First Merchant then fetches the pan of milk 
from the pantry^ and spills zt on the ground. 
He returns y and brings out the wolf and throws 
it down by the hen.'] 

These need much burning. 
This stool and this chair here will make good 
fuel. 

[He begins breaking the chair. ~\ 



End of Scene I. 



31 



SCENE 11. 

lA great hall in the castle of the Countess 
Kathleen. There is a large ivindow of 
partly -coloured glass at the further end. The 
wall to the right jnts out slightly^ cutting 
oj' an angle of the room. A flight of stone 
steps leads up to a small arched door in 
the jutting wall. Through the door can be 
seen a little oratory. The hall is hung with 
tapestry representing the wars and loves and 
huntings of the Finian and Red -branch 
warriors. There are doors to the right and 
left. On the left side Oona sits as if asleep in 
a large oak chair. The Countess Kathleen 
stands looking through the ivindow. She leaves 
it and goes over to Oona on tiptoe. ~\ 

Kathleen. 
You were asleep. 

Oona. 
No, child, I was but thinking 
Why you have grown so sad. 



32 The Countess Kathleen. 

Kathleen. 

The famine frets me. 

Oona. 
I have lived now near ninety winters, child, 
And I have known three things no doctor 

cures — 
Love, loneliness, and famine — nor found refuge 
Other than growing old and full of sleep. 
See you where Oisin and young Niam ride 
Wrapped in each other's arms, and where the 

Finians 
Follow their hounds along the fields of tapestry, 
How merry they lived once, yet men died then. 
I'll sing the ballad young bard Kevin sang 
By the great door, the light about his head. 
When he bid you cast off this cloud of care. 

Kathleen. 
Sing how King Fergus in his brazen car 
Drove with a troop of dancers through the 
woods. 

[_She crouches down on the floor and lays her 
head upon Oona's knees.'] 



The Countess Kathleen. 33 

OONA. 

You always loved old things — loved best the tale, 
Told many times. Dear, wherefore should you 

sadden 
For wrongs you cannot hinder. The great God 
Smiling condemns the lost. Be mirthful : He 
Bids youth be merry and old age be wise. 

[^A voice without.'] 

You may not see the Countess. 

[Another voice.'] 

I must see her. 

\_Sound of a slight struggle. A servant enters 
from door to R.] 

Servant. 
The gardener is resolved to speak with you. 
I cannot stay him. 

Kathleen. 
You may come, Maurteen. 

\^The gardener^ an old man^ conies in from the 
Rj and the servant goes ont.] 



34 The Countess Kathleen. 

Gardener. 
Forgive my clay-soiled coat — my muddy shoes. 
I bring ill words, your ladyship — too bad 
To send with any other. 

Kathleen. 

These bad times 
Can any news be bad or any good ? 

Gardener. 
A crowd of ugly lean-faced rogues last night 
— And may God curse them — climbed the garden 

wall. 
There's scarce an apple now on twenty trees, 
And my asparagus and strawberry beds 
Are trampled into clauber, and the boughs 
Of beech and plum trees broken and torn down 
For some last fruit that hung there. My dog, too. 
My old blind Simon, he who had no tail, 
They murdered — God's red anger seize them. 

Kathleen. 
I know how pears and all the tribe of apples 
Are daily in your love — how this ill chance 
Is sudden doomsday fallen on your year ; 
So do not say no matter. I but say 



The Countess Kathleen. 35 

I blame the famished season, and no more. 
Then be not troubled. 

Gardener. 

Thanks, your ladyship. 

Kathleen. 
What portents and what rumours of the dearth ? 

Gardener. 
The yellow vapour, in whose folds it came. 
That creeps along the hedges at nightfall, 
Makes my new shrubs and saplings poor and 

sickly. 
I pray against it. 

S^He goes towards the door, then pauses?^ 
If her ladyship 
Would give me an old crossbow, I would watch 
Behind a bush and guard the pears o nights 
And make a hole in somebody I know of. 

Kathleen. 
They'll give you a long draught of ale below. 

\The gardener goes ont.'\ 

OoNA. 
What did he say ; he stood on my deaf side ? 



36 The Countess Kathleen. 

Kathleen. 
His apples are all stolen. Pruning time, 
The rounding and ripening of his pears and 

apples, 
For him's a long heart-moving history. 

Oona. 
Now lay your head once more upon my knees. 
I'll sing how Fergus drove his brazen cars. 

\_She chants with the thin voice of age^ 

Wlio IV ill go drive with Fergus now^ 
And pierce the deep ivood^s ivoven shade^ 
And dance tipon the level shore ? 
Yotmg man^ lift np your rnsset brow^ 
And lift your tender eyelids^ maid^ 

And brood on hopes and fears no niore. 

You have dropped down again into your trouble. 
You do not hear me. 

Kathleen. 

Ah, sing on, old Oona, 
I hear the horn of Fergus in my heart. 

Oona. 
I do not know the meaning of the song. 
I am too old. 



The Countess Kathleen. 3*7 

Kathleen. 
The horn is caUing, calling. 

OONA. 

And no more turn aside and brood 
Upon Lovers bitter mystery ; 
For Fergus rules the brazen cars^ 
And rules the shadows of the wood^ 
And the white breast of the dim sea 
And all dishevelled wandering stars. 

\_The servants voice without.'] 

The Countess Kathleen must not be disturbed. 

{^Another voice.'] 

Man, I must see her. 

Kathleen. 
Who now wants me, Michael ? 

Servant {from the door.) 
A herdsman and his history. 

Kathleen. 

He may come. 

\_The herdsman enters from door to R.] 



3B The Countess Kathleen. 

Herdsman. 
Forgive this dusty gear. I have come far. 
My sheep were taken from the fold last night. 
You will be angry. I am. not to blame. 
Go blame these robbing times. 

Kathleen. 

No blame's with you ; 
I blame the famine. 

Herdsman. 
Kneeling, I give thanks. 
When gazing on your face the poorest, Lady, 
Forget their poverty ; the rich their care. 

Kathleen. 
What rumours and what portents of the famine ? 

Herdsman. 
As I came down the lane by Tubber-vanach 
A boy and man sat cross-legged on two stones. 
With moving hands and faces famine-thin, 
Gabbling to crowds of men and wives and boys 
Of how two merchants at '' The Lady's Head " 
Buy souls for hell, giving a price so great 
That men may live through all the dearth in plenty. 
The vales are famine crazy — I'm right glad 
My home is on the mountain near to God. 



The Countess Kathleen. 39 

\^He turns to go."] 

Kathleen. 
They'll give you ale and meat before you go. 
You must have risen at dawn to come so far. 
Keep your bare mountain — let the world drift by, 
The burden of its wrongs rests not on you. 

Herdsman. 
I am content to serve your ladyship. 

[He goes.'] 

OONA. 

What did he say ; he stood on my deaf side ? 
He seemed to give you word of woeful things. 

Kathleen. 
O, I am sadder than an old air, Oona ; 
My heart is longing for a deeper peace 
Than Fergus found amid his brazen cars : 
Would that like Adene my first forebear's 

daughter, 
Who followed once a twilight piercing tune, 
I could go down and dwell among the shee 
In their old ever-busy honeyed land. 



40 The Countess Kathleen. 

OONA. 

You should not say such things — they bring 
ill-luck. 

Kathleen. 
The image of young Adene on the arras, 
Walking along, one finger Hfted up, 
And that wild song of the unending dance 
Of the dim Danaan nations in their raths. 
Young Kevin sang for me by the great door, 
Has filled me full of all these wicked words. 

\The servant enters hastily^ folloived by three 
men. Two are peasants. '\ 

Servant. 
The steward of the castle brings two men 
To talk with you. 

Steward. 
And tell the strangest story 
Man's mouth has uttered. 

Kathleen. 

More food gone ; 
Yet learned theologians have laid down 
That he who has no food, offending no way, 
May take his meat and bread from too-full larders. 



The Countess Kathleen. 41 

First Peasant. 
We come to make amends for robbery. 
I stole five hundred apples from your trees, 
And laid them in a hole. And my friend here 
Last night stole two large mountain sheep of 

yours 
And hung them on a beam under his thatch. 

Second Peasant. 
His words are true. 

First Peasant. 
Since then our luck has changed. 
As I came down the lane by Tubber-vanach 
I fell on Shemus Rua and his son, 
And they led me where two great gentlemen 
Buy souls for money, and they bought my soul. 
I told my friend here — my friend also trafficked. 

Second Peasant. 
His words are true. 

First Peasant. 

Now people throng to sell, 
Noisy as seagulls tearing a dead fish. 
There soon will be no man or woman's soul 
Unbargained for in fivescore baronies. 



42 The Countess Kathleen. 

Second Peasant. 
His words are true. 

First Peasant. 

When we had sold we talked, 
And having no more comfortable life 
Than this that makes us warm — our souls being 

bartered 
For all this money. 

Second Peasant. 

And this money here. 

\They bring handfuls of money from their 
i)ockets. Kathleen starts np,"] 

And fearing much to hang for robbery, 

We come to pay you for the sheep and fruit. 

How do you price them ? 

Kathleen. 

Gather up your money. 
Think you that I would touch the demons' gold ? 
Begone, give twice, thrice, twenty times their 

money. 
And buy again your souls. I will pay all. 



The Countess Kathleen. 43 

First Peasant. 
Nay, for we go now to be drunk and merry. 

Kathleen [^to servant]. 
Follow and bring them here again — beseech them. 

\_The servant goes.'] 

\_To Steivard.] 
Steward, you know the secrets of this house. 
How much have I in gold ? 

Steward. 

A hundred thousand. 

Kathleen. 
How much have I in castles ? 



Steward. 

Kathleen. 
How much have I in pastures ? 

Steward. 

Kathleen. 
How much have I in forests ? 



As much more. 



As much more. 



44 The Countess Kathleen. 

Steward. 

Fifty thousand. 

Kathleen. 
Keeping alone this house, sell all I have ; 
Buy ships of grain and meal — long herds of cows, 
And hasten here once more. And while you're 

gone, 
Bid some one give out gold to all who come. 

Steward. 
God's blessing light upon your ladyship ; 
You will have saved the land. 

Kathleen. 

Make no delay, 
And bid them house here all the old and ailing. 

[He goes.'] 

[^Re-enter servant.'] 

How did you thrive ? Say quickly. You are 
pale ? 

Servant. 
When I came near, the tallest of the rogues 
Said he'd be no more stared at, and struck out. 



The Countess Kathleen. 45 

Kathleen. 
Will no one bring them to me ? 

Servant. 

No one dare. 
Their eyes burn like the eyes of birds of prey 
Now they are angry. 

Kathleen. 

May God pity them. 

Servant. 
I ran, for they have power not born of us. 

Kathleen. 
My world is withering. Leave me — leave me 
now. 

\The servant goes otit^ and Kathleen goes over 
to OoNA and lays her head upon her knees.'] 

OONA. 

What, child, dear, did they talk so much about. 
And whence came all the money ? — my deaf side. 
Why, you are weeping — and such tears ! Such 

tears ! 
Look, child, how big they are. 



46 The Countess Kathleen. 

Thy shadow falls 
O Weeping Willow of the World, O Eri, 
On this the loveliest daughter of thy race, 
Thy leaves blow round her. 

I give God great thanks 
That I am old — lost in the sleep of age. 



End of Scene II. 



47 



SCENE III. 

\^The hall in the castle of the Countess Kath- 
leen, as before. Midnight. The Two Mer- 
chants enter ^ cautiously^ with empty bags over 
their shoitlders.'] 

First Merchant. 
And whence now, brother ? 

Second Merchant. 

Tubber-vanach cross roads, 
Where I in image of a nine-monthed bonyeen 
Sat down upon my haunches. Father John 
Came, sad and moody, murmuring many prayers. 
I seemed as though I came from his own sty. 
He saw the one brown ear — the breviary dropped — • 
He ran — I ran — I ran into the quarry ; 
He fell a score of yards. The man was dead. 
And then I thrust his soul into the bag. 
And hurried home. His right hand, on the way — 
The hand that blessed the poor and raised the 
host — 



48 The Countess Kathleen. 

Tore through the leather with sharp piety, 
And he escaped me. 

First Merchant. 

With this priest John dead, 
We shall be too much thronged with souls to- 
morrow. 

Second Merchant. 
My chosen venture was to kill this man, 
And yours to rob the Countess. You fare ill. 
I found you sitting drowsed and motionless. 
Your chin bowed to your knees, while on all 

sides. 
Bat-like, from bough, and roof, and window 

ledge. 
Clung evil souls of men, and in the woods, 
Like streaming flames, floated upon the winds 
The elemental creatures. 

First Merchant. 

J fare ill ! 
This holy Countess prayed so long and hard, . 
That doors and windows barred with piety 
Defied me and my drudges out of Hell. 
But now she's fallen asleep over her prayers ; 



The Countess Kathleen. 49 

\_He points to the oratory door. They peer through 
catitt'otisly.'] 

She lies worn out upon the altar steps : 
A labourer, tired of ploughing His hard fields, 
And deafening His closed ears with cries on cries 
Hoping to draw His hands down from the stars 
To take the people from us. 

Second Merchant. 

We must hurry. 
We would half stifle if she woke and prayed. 

[They go out by the left-hand door^ and enter 
again almost immediately^ carrying full bags 
nt>on their shoulders.'] 

First Merchant. 
Brave thought, brave thought — a shining thought 

of mine ! 
She now no more may bribe the poor — no more 
Cheat our great master of his merchandize, 
While our heels dangle at "The Lady's Head," 
And grass grows on the threshold, and snails 

crawl 
Along the window-pane and the mud floor, 
c 



50 The Countess Kathleen. 

Brother, where wander all these dwarfish folk, 
Hostile to men — the sheogues of the tides ? 

Second Merchant \opening the great windows^ 
and showing the tops of the trees^. 

There are none here. They tired and strayed 

from hence — 
Unwilling labourers. 

First Merchant. 

I will draw them in. 

\^He cries through the window. '\ 

Come hither, hither, hither, water folk : 
Come all you elemental populace ; 
Leave lonely the long-hoarding surges : leave 
The cymbals of the waves to clash alone, 
And shaking the sea tangles from your hair, 
Gather about us. 

[After a tatise^ 

I can hear a sound 
As from waves beating upon distant strands ; 
And now the sheogues, like a surf of light, 



The Countess Kathleen. 51 

Pour eddying through the pathways of the oaks; 
And as they come, the sentient grass and leaves 
Bow towards them, and the tall, drouth-jaded 

oaks 
Fondle the murmur of their flying feet. 

Second Merchant. 
The green things love unknotted hearts and 

minds, 
And neither one with angels or with us, 
Nor risen in arms with evil or with good. 
In laughter roves, the litter of the waves. 

[^A crowd of faces fill up the darkness otUside the 
window. A sheogiie separates from the others^ 
and standing in the window^ speaks. '\ 

The Sheogue. 
We come unwillingly, for she whose gold 
We must now carry to "The Lady's Head " 
Is dear to all our race. On the green plain 
Beside the sea a hundred shepherds live. 
To mind her sheep ; and when the nightfall 

comes 
They leave a hundred pans of white ewes' milk 
Outside their doors, to feed us on our way 



52 The Countess Kathleen. 

From dancing with land sheogues in their raths, 
Driven homeward by the dawn. 

First Merchant [making a sign upon the air). 

Obey or suffer. 

The Sheogue. 
The sign of evil burns upon our hearts, 
And we obey. 

\^They crowd through the window^ and take out 
of the bags a small bag each. They are less 
than the size of meii and women^ and are 
dressed in green jackets^ with red caps^ trim- 
med with shells.~\ 

First Merchant. 

And now begone — begone ! 

[They go. "] 

I bid them go for being garrulous 

And flighty creatures — they had soon begun 

To deafen us with their sea gossip. Now 

We must go bring more money. Brother, 

brother, 
I long to see my master's face again, 
For I turn homesick. 



The Countess Kathleen. 53 

Second Merchant. 

I too tire of toil. 

[They go out^ and return as before^ ivith their 
bags full.'] 

Second Merchant [pointing to the oratory"]. 

How may we gain this woman for our lord ? 
This pearl, this turquoise fastened in his crown 
Would make it shine like His we dare not name. 
Now that the winds are heavy with our kind, 
Might we not kill her, and bear off her spirit 
Before the mob of angels were astir ? 

[A number of little bags fall from his big leather 
one."] 

First Merchant. 
Who tore the bag ? 

Second Merchant. 

The finger of priest John, 
When he fled through the leather. I had 

thought 
Because his was an old and little spirit 
The tear would hardly matter. 



54 The Countess Kathleen. 

First Merchant. 

This comes, brother, 
Of steahng souls that are not rightly ours. 
If we would win this turquoise for our lord. 
It must go dropping down of its free will. 

[He It's tens.'] 

The noise wakened the household. While you 

spoke 
I heard chairs moved, and heard folk's shuffling 

feet. 
We still have time — they search the distant 

rooms. 
Call hither now the sowlths and tevishies. 

Second Merchant igoing to the wmdow']. 
There are none here. They tired and strayed 

from hence — 
Unwilling labourers. 

First Merchant. 

I will draw them in. 

\^He cries through the window^ 

Come hither, you lost souls of men, who died 
In drunken sleep, and by each other's hands, 



The Countess Kathleen. 55 

When they had bartered you away to us 

At Shemus Rua's. Hither, tevishies, 

Who mourn among the scenery of your sins, 

Turning to animal and reptile forms 

— The visages of passions. Hither, sowlths ; 

Leave marshes and the reed-encumbered pools. 

You shapeless fires, that once were souls of men, 

And are a fading wretchedness. 

Second Merchant. 

They come not. 

First Merchant \_making a sign upon the atr^. 
Come hither, sowlths and tevishies. 

Second Merchant. 

I hear 
A crying as of storm-distempered reeds. 
And now the sowlths and tevishies rise up 
Like steam out of the earth ; the grass and leaves 
Shiver and shrink away and sway about. 
Blown by unnatural gusts of ice-cold air. 

First Merchant. 
One are they with all forces of decay — 
111 longings, madness, lightning, hail and drouth. 



56 The Countess Kathleen. 

[The darkness fills with vague for ins ^ some animal 
shapes^ some hitman^ some mere nebnlons lights.'] 

Come you — and you — and you, and lift these 
bags. 

A Tevish. 
We are too violent — mere shapes of storms. 

First Merchant. 
Come you — and you — and you, and lift these 
bags. 

A Sowlth. 
We are too feeble, fading out of life. 

First Merchant. 
Come you, and you, who are the latest dead, 
And still wear human shape — the shape of power. 

\_The two robbing peasants of the last act come 
forward. Their faces have withered from 
much pain.] 

Now, brawlers, lift the bags of gold. 

First Peasant. 

Aye, aye ! 
Unwillingly, unwillingly ; for her. 
Whose gold we bear upon our shoulders thus, 



The Countess Kathleen. 57 

Has endless pity even for lost souls 

In her good heart. At moments, now and then, 

When plunged in horror, brooding each alone, 

A memory of her face floats in on us. 

It brings more plumed miseries, half repose, 

And we wail one to other — we obey. 

For heaven's many-angled star reversed 

— Now sign of evil — burns into our hearts. 

First Merchant. 
When these last bags lie at " The Lady's Head 
The burning shall give over — now begone. 

\_They go^ and the forms and lights vanish also.'] 

I bid them go, for they are lonely things. 
And when they see ought living love to sigh. 

\_Potnting to the oratory.'] 

Brother, I hear a sound in there — a sound 
That troubles me. 

Second Merchant [got^ig to the door of the 
oratory and peering through it\ 

Upon the altar steps 
The Countess tosses, murmuring in her sleep 
A broken paternoster. 



58 The Countess Kathleen. 

\_The First Merchant goes to the door and 
stands beside htm.'] 

She's grown still. 

First Merchant. 
A great plan floats into my mind — no wonder, 
For I come from the ninth and mightiest Hell, 
Where all are kings. I'll wake her from her 

sleep, 
And mix with all her thoughts, a thought to 

serve. 

[He calls throngh the door."] 

May we be well remembered in your prayers. 

[The Countess Kathleen wakes ^ and comes to 
the door of the oratory. The Merchants 
descend into the room again. She stands at 
the top of the stone steps."] 

Kathleen. 
What would you, sirs ? 

First Merchant. 

We are two merchant men, 
New come from foreign lands. We bring you 
news. 



The Countess Kathleen. 59 

Forgive our sudden entry — the great door 
Was open, we came in to seek a face. 

Kathleen. 
The door stands always open to receive, 
With kindly welcome, starved and sickly folk, 
Or any who would fly the woeful times. 
Merchants, you bring me news. 

First Merchant. 

We saw a man 
Heavy with sickness in the bog of Allan, 
Whom you had bid buy cattle. Near Fair Head 
We saw your grain ships lying all becalmed 
In the dark night, and not less still than they 
Burned all their mirrored lanthorns in the sea. 

Kathleen. 
My thanks to God, to Mary, and the angels, 
I still have bags of money, and can buy 
Meal from the merchants who have stored it up, 
To prosper on the hunger of the poor. 
You have been far, and know the signs of things : 
When will this yellow vapour no more hang 
And creep about the fields, and this great heat 
Vanish away^and grass show its green shoots ? 



66 The Countess Kathleen* 

First Merchant. 
There is no sign of change — day copies day, 
Green things are dead — the cattle too are 

dead, 
Or dying — and on all the vapour hangs 
And fattens with disease and glows with heat. 
In you is all the hope of all the land. 

Kathleen. 
And heard you of the demons who buy souls ? 

First Merchant. 
There are some men who hold they have wolves' 

heads. 
And say their limbs, dried by the infinite flame, 
Have all the speed of storms ; others again 
Say they are gross and little ; while a few 
Will have it they seem much as mortals are. 
But tall and brown and travelled, like us, lady. 
Yet all agree there's power in their looks 
That makes men bow, and flings a casting net 
About their souls, and that all men would go 
And barter those poor flames — their spirits — 

only 
You bribe them with the safety of your gold. 



The Countess Kathleen. 6i 

Kathleen. 
Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels, 
That I am wealthy. Wherefore do they sell ? 
Is the green grave so terrible ? 

First Merchant. 

Some sell 
Because they will not see their children die, 
And some because their neighbours sold before, 
And some because there is a kind of joy 
In casting hope away, in losing joy, 
In ceasing all resistance, in at last 
Opening one's arms to the eternal flames, 
In casting all sails out upon the wind : 
To this— full of the gaiety of the lost— 
Would all folk hurry if your gold were gone. 

Kathleen. 
There is a something, merchant, in your voice 
That makes me fear. When you were telling how 
A man may lose his soul and lose his God, 
Your eyes lighted, and the strange weariness 
That hangs about you, vanished. When you told 
How my poor money serves the people— both— 
Merchants, forgive me— seemed to smile. 



62 The Countess Kathleen. 

First Merchant. 

Man's sins 
Move us to laughter only, we have seen 
So many lands and seen so many men. 
How strange that all these people should be 

swung 
As on a lady's shoe-string — under them 
The glowing leagues of never-ending flame. 

Kathleen. 
There is a something in you that I fear — 
A something not of us. Were you not born 
In some most distant corner of the world ? 

\The Second Merchant, who has been listening 
at the door to the rights comes forward^ and as 
he comes ^ a sound of voices and feet is heard 
through the door to his leftJ] 

Second Merchant {^aside to First Merchant]. 
Away now — they are in the passage — hurry. 
For they will know us, and freeze up our hearts 
With Ave Maries, and burn all our skin 
With holy water. 



The Countess Kathleen. 63 

First Merchant. 
Farewell — we must ride 
Many a mile before the morning come ; 
Our horses beat the ground impatiently. 

\_They go out to R.^ 

\_A number of peasants enter at the same moment 
by the opposite door^ 

Kathleen. 
What would you ? 

A Peasant. 
As we nodded by the fire, 
Telling old shannachus we heard a noise 
Of falling money. We have searched in vain. 

Kathleen. 
You are too timid. I heard naught at all. 

An Old Man. 
Aye, we are timid, for a rich man's word 
Can shake our houses, and a moon of drouth 
Shrivel our seedlings in the barren earth ; 
We are the slaves of wind, and hail, and flood ; 
Fear jogs our elbow in the market-place, 
And nods beside us on the chimney-seat. 



64 The Countess Kathleen. 

lU-bodings are as native to our hearts 
As are their spots unto the woodpeckers. 

Kathleen. 
You need not shake with bodings in this house. 

[OoNA enters from the door to Z.] 

OONA. 

The treasure - room is broken in — mavrone — 

mavrone 
The door stands open, and the gold is gone. 

[^The peasants raise a lamenting cry.l 

Kathleen. 
Be silent. 

[^Tke cry ceases.^ 

Saw you any one ? 

Oona. 

Mavrone, 
That my good mistress should lose all this money. 

Kathleen. 
You three upon my right hand, ride and ride ; 
I'll give a farm to him who finds the thieves. 

[A man ivith keys at his girdle has entered while 
she was si)eaking,'] 



The Countess Kathleen. 6 

A Peasant. 
The porter trembles. 

The Porter. 

It is all no use ; 
Demons were here. I sat beside the door 
In my stone nich, and two owls passed me by, 
Whispering with human voices. 

An Old Man. 

God forsakes us. 

Kathleen. 
Old man, old man, He never closed a door 
Unless one opened. I am desolate. 
For a most sad resolve wakes in my heart : 
But always I have faith. Old men and women 
Be silent ; He does not forsake the world, 
But stands before it modelling in the clay 
And moulding there His image. Age by age 
The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard 
For its old, heavy, dull, and shapeless ease ; 
At times it crumbles — and a nation falls. 
Now moves awry — and demon hordes are born. 

\_The peasants cross themselves. '\ 



66 The Countess Kathleen. 

But leave me now, for I am desolate, 

I hear a whisper from beyond the thunder. 

\_She steps down from the oratory door.'] 

Yet stay an instant. When we meet again 
I may have grown forgetful. Oona, take 
These two — the larder and the dairy keys. 

[7b a peasant.'] 

But take you this. It opens the small room 
Of herbs for medicine — of helebore, 
Of vervain, monkshood, plantain, and self-heal, 
And all the others ; and the book of cures 
Is on the upper shelf. You understand 
Because you doctored goats and cattle once. 

The Peasant. 
Why do you do this, lady — did you see 
Your coffin in a dream ? 

Kathleen. 

Ah, no, not that, 
A sad resolve wakes in me. I have heard 
A sound of wailing in unnumbered hovels. 
And I must go down, down, I know not where. 



The Countess Kathleen. 67 

Pray for the poor folk who are crazed with 

famine ; 
Pray, you good neighbours. 

{The peasants all kneel. The Countess Kath- 
leen ascends the steps to the door of the oratory^ 
and turning round^ stands there motionless for 
a little^ and then cries in a loud voice."] 

Mary, queen of angels, 
And all you clouds on clouds of saints, farewell. 



End of Scene III. 



SCENE IV. 

\_The Inn of Shemus Riia^ as in Scene I. The 
Two Merchants are sittings one at each end 
of the table^ with rolls of parchment and many 
little heaps of gold before them.'] 

First Merchant. 
The woman may keep robbing us no more, 
For there are only mice now in her coffers. 

Second Merchant. 
Last night, closed in the image of an owl, 
I hurried to the cliffs of Donegal, 
And saw, creeping on the uneasy surge, 
Those ships that bring the woman grain and 

meal ; 
They are five days from us. 

First Merchant. 

I hurried East, 
A gray owl flitting, flitting in the dew, 
And saw nine hundred oxen toil through Meath, 
Driven on by goads of iron. They, too, brother, 
Are full five days from us. 



The Countess Kathleen. 69 

Second Merchant. 

Five days for traffic, 

[WMe they have been speaking the peasants have 
come in^ led by Teig and Shemus, who take 
their stations^ 07ie on each side of the door^ and 
keep them marshalled into rude order and en- 
courage them from time to time with gestures 
and whispered words ^ 

Here throng they ; smce the drouth they go in 

throngs, 
Like autumn leaves blown by the dreary winds 
Come, deal—come, deal. 

First Merchant. 
Who will come deal with us ? 

Shemus. 
They're out of spirit, sir, with lack of food, 
Save four or five. Here, sir, is one of these ; 
The others will gain courage in good time. 

A Middle-Aged Man. 
I come to deal if you give honest price. 



70 The Countess Kathleen. 

First Merchant {reading in a parchment) 
John Maher, a man of substance, with dull 

mind, 
And quiet senses and unventurous heart. 
The angels think him safe. Two hundred crowns, 
All for a soul, a little whiff of gas. 

The Man. 

I ask three hundred crowns. You have read 

there, 
That no mere lapse of days can make me yours. 

First Merchant. 

There's something more writ here — often at 

night 
He's wakeful from a dread of growing poor. 
There is this crack in you — two hundred crowns. 

[The Man takes them and goes. '\ 

Second Merchant. 

Come, deal — one would half think you had no 

souls. 
If only for the credit of your parishes, 



The Countess Kathleen. 71 

Come, deal, deal, deal, or will you always starve ? 
A woman lived here once, she would not deal — 
She starved— she lies in there with red wall- 
flowers. 
And candles stuck in bottles, round her head. 

A Woman. 
What price now will you give for mine ? 

First Merchant. 

Aye, aye, 
Soft, handsome, and still young — not much, I 
think. 

[^Reading in the -barcJiment^ 

She has a little jar of new love-letters 
On a high shelf between the pepper-pot 
And wood-cased hour-glass. 

Woman. 
Oh, the scandalous parchment ! 

First Merchant \reading\. 
She hides them from her husband, who buys 
horses, 



72 The Countess Kathleen. 

And is not much at home. You're almost safe. 
I give you fifty crowns. 

[^She turns to go."] 

A hundred, then. 

[^She takes them^ a7id goes into the crowd ^ 

Come — deal, deal, deal. 'Tis but for charity 
We buy such souls at all. A thousand sins 
Made them our master's long before we came. 
Come, deal — come, deal. You seem resolved to 

starve 
Until your bones show through your skin. 

Come, deal, 
Or live on nettles, grass, and dandelion. 
Deal. Do you dream the famine shall go by ? 
The famine's hale and hearty — it is mine 
And my great master's — it shall no wise cease 
Until our purpose end. The yellow vapour 
That brought it bears it over your dried fields 
And fills with violent phantoms of the lost. 
And grows more deadly as day copies day. 
See how it dims the daylight. Is that peace 
Known to the birds of prey so dread a thing ? 



The Countess Kathleen. 73 

They, and the souls obedient to our master, 
And those who live with that great other spirit 
Have gained an end, a peace, while you but toss 
And swing upon a moving balance beam. 

Kevin [<7 yoiing 7nan^ ivho carries a harp with 

torn wires']. 
Here, take my soul, for I am tired of it ; 
I do not ask a price. 

First Merchant \reading\. 
A man of songs — 
Alone in the hushed passion of romance. 
His mind ran all on sheogues, and on tales 
Of Finian labours and the Red-branch kings. 
And he cared nothing for the life of man : 
But now all changes. 

Kevin. 

Aye, because her face, 
The face of Countess Kathleen dwells with me. 
The sadness of the world upon her brow — 
The crying of these strings grew burdensome. 
Therefore I tore them— see— now take my soul. 

First Merchant. 
We cannot take your soul, for it is hers. 
p 



74 The Countess Kathleen. 

Kevin. 
Ah, take it — take it. It nowise can help her, 
And, therefore, do I tire of it. 

First Merchant. 
No — no — 
We may not touch it. 

Kevin. 
Is your power so small, 
Must I then bear it with me all my days ? 
May scorn close deep about you. 

First Merchant. 

Lead him hence; 
He troubles me. 

[Teig and Shemus lead the yoimg man into the 
crowd.'\ 

Second Merchant. 
His gaze has filled me, brother, 
With shaking and a dreadful fear. 

First Merchant. 

Lean forward 
And kiss my crown here where my master's lips 



The Countess Kathleen. 75 

Were pressed upon it when he sent us hither — 
You will have peace once more. 

[The Second Merchant kisses the gold band that 
IS about the head of the First Merchant.] 

Shemus. 

He is called Kevin, 
And has been crazy now these many days ; 
But has no harm in him : his fits soon pass, 
And one can go and lead him like a child. 

First Merchant. 
Come, deal, deal, deal, deal, deal — are you 
dumb ? 

Shemus. 
They say you beat the woman down too low. 

First Merchant. 
I offer this great price — a thousand pieces 
For an old woman who was ever ugly. 

\_An old woman comes forward^ and he takes tip 
a parchment^ and reads. '\ 

There is but little set down here against her ; 
She stole fowl sometimes when the harvest 
failed. 



76 The Countess Kathleen. 

But always went to chapel twice a week, 
And paid her dues when prosperous. Take your 
money. 

The Old Woman [^ciirtseymg']. 
God bless you, sir. 

\^She screams.'] 

O, sir, a pain went through me. 

First Merchant. 
That name is like a fire to all damned souls. 
Begone \^she goes']. See how the red gold pieces 

glitter. 
Deal. Do you fear because an old hag screamed ? 
Are you all cowards ? 

A Peasant. 

Nay, I am no coward. 
I will sell half my soul. 

First Merchant. 

How half your soul ? 

The Peasant. 
Half of my chance of heaven. 



The Countess Kathleen. 77 

First Merchant. 

'Tis writ here 
This man in all things takes the moderate course, 
He sits on midmost of the balance beam, 
And no man has had good of him or evil. 
Begone, we will not buy you. 

Second Merchant. 

Deal, come deal. 

First Merchant. 
What, will you keep us from our ancient home. 
And from the eternal revelry ? Come, deal, 
And we will hence to our great master. Deal, 
Come, deal, deal. 

The Peasants shout. 
The Countess comes ! The Countess ! 

Kathleen \_e7itering^. 
And so you trade once more ? 

First Merchant. 

In spite of you. 
What brings you here, saint with the sapphire 
eyes ? 



78 The Countess Kathleen. 

Kathleen. 
I have a soul to sell, but it is dear. 

First Merchant. 
What matter, if the soul be precious ! 

Kathleen. 

Merchants, 
These people starve, and therefore do they come 
Thronging to you. I hear a cry come from them. 
And it is in my ears by night and day. 
And I would have five hundred thousand crowns. 
That I may feed them till the dearth goes by ; 
And all the wretched spirits you have bought 
For your gold crowns, released, and sent to God. 
The soul that I would sell is mine. 

A Peasant. 

Do not — 
Do not, dear lady, what do our souls matter ? 
They are not dear to God as your soul is. 
O ! what would heaven do without you, lady ? 

Another Peasant. 

Look how their claws clutch in their leathern 
gloves. 



■:-^ 



The Countess Kathleen. 79 

First Merchant. 
Five hundred thousand crowns— we give the 

price, 
The gold is here— the spirits, while you speak. 
Begin to labour upward, for your face 
Sheds a great light on them and fills their hearts 
With those unveilings of the fickle light, 
Whereby our heavy labours have been marred 
Since first His spirit moved upon the deeps 
And stole them from us. Even before this day 
The souls were but half ours, for your bright 

eyes 
Had pierced them through and robbed them of 

content. 
But you must sign, for we do all in order, 
in buying such a soul — sign with this quill ; 
It was a feather growing on the cock 
That crowed when Peter had denied his Master ; 
Tis a great honour thus to write with it. 

[Kathleen leans forward to szgn.'] 

Kevin [rushing forward and snatching the parch- 
ment from her"]. 
You shall yet know the love of some great chief. 



8o The Countess Kathleen. 

And children gathering round your knees. Leave 

you 
The peasants to the builder of the heavens. 

Kathleen. 
I have no thoughts. I hear a cry — a cry. 

Kevin {casting the parchment on the ground^ 

I had a vision under a green hedge, 
A hedge of hips and haws — men yet shall hear 
Archangels rolling over the high mountains 
Old Satan's empty skull. 

First Merchant. 

Take him away. 

[Teig and Shemus lead him away. Kathleen 
picks up the parchment and signs^ and then 
turns towards the peasants.^ 

Kathleen. 
Take up the money, and now come with me. 
When we are far from this polluted place 
I will give each one of you what he needs. 

\^She goes out^ the peasants crowding round her 
and kissing her dress. The Two Merchants 
are left alone.'\ 



The Countess Kathleen. 8i 

First Merchant. 
Now are our days of heavy labour done. 

Second Merchant. 
We have a precious jewel for Satan's crown. 

First Merchant. 
We must away, and wait until she dies, 
Sitting above her tower as twin grey owls. 
Watching as many years as may be, guarding 
Our precious jewel — waiting to seize her soul. 

Second Merchant. 
And we shall not wait long. I saw a look 
That seemed the dimness of the tomb in her. 
And she walks slowly, as with leaden slippers, 
And has her eyes fixed often on the ground. 
As though she saw the worms a-beckoning. 

First Merchant. 
Away ! Now leap we feathered on the air. 

\_They rush out.l 



End of Scene IV. 



u 



SCENE V. 

[77/^ room in the castle q/ Countess Kathleen, 
as in Scenes II. and III. Dawn breaks faintly 
throngh the large wtndoiv. A number of 
peasants enter hastily^ half dressed^ as though 
aroused suddenly from sleep. Oona is among 
them.'] 

First Peasant. 
There's nothing here. 

Second Peasant. 
It could not be far off, 
A screeching noise — I heard it plain. Neal heard 
it. 

Neal \_an old peasant"]. 
I sleep alone in the room under this. 
Last night was cold and windy, I had stuffed 
My muffler underneath the door, and pushed 
My great cloak up the chimney, yet the wind 
Sang through the keyhole. 



The Countess Kathleen. 83 

First Peasant. 

But the noise — 

Neal. 

The noise — 
I'm coming to the noise. I lay awake 
Thinking I should catch cold and surely die, 
And wondering if I could close up the keyhole 
With an old piece of cloth shaped like a tongue 
That hangs over a tear here in my coat, 
When right above there came a screech of birds, 
A sound of voices and a noise of blows, 
It surely came from here, and yet all's empty. 

Third Peasant. 
And I am sure the noise was further off. 

First Peasant. 
We will go search the northern tower. 

\They all go except Oona andaYo\]^G Peasant.] 

Young Peasant {^gotng close up to Oona]. 

Oona, 
I peered out through the window in the passage, 
And saw bard Kevin wandering in the wood ; 



84 The Countess Kathleen. 

Sometimes he laid his head upon the ground. 
They say he hears the sheogues down below 
Nailing four boards. 

OONA. 

For love has made him crazy, 
And loneliness and famine dwell with him. 

Young Peasant. 
Then, is not love a thing of bitterness ? 

OoNA. 
The years like great black oxen tread the world, 
And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind. 
When one has lain long under their hard hoofs, 
One falls forgetting. 

Young Peasant. 

I have not known love, 
I am too young ; I will go ask old Neal. 

\^He gocs7\ 

OoNA \alone\. 
They wake one up with some mad cry of thieves 
Or fire, because they dream — now all folk dream 
From being so long hungry. 

\^She listens. '\ 



The Countess Kathleen. 85 

My dear mistress 
Must have dropped off to sleep. All night 
She has been pacing in the chapel there. 

\_Ske goes over to the oratory steps and finds them 
covered ivith feather s.'\ 

I know what clamour frighted them — some bird, 
Some hawk or kestrel, chased its prey to this ; 
These are owls feathers. I will go and see 
What window has swung open over-night. 

\_She goes into the oratory and returns hastily^ 
leaving the door open. A bright light streams 
through the open door."] 



My hour has come, oh blessed queen of heaven, 

I am to die, for I have seen a vision. 

O, they are coming, they are coming, coming. 



[^A roza 0/ spirits carryi7ig the lifeless body of the 
Countess Kathleen descend sloivly from the 
oratory. Oona has crouched doivn npon the 
floor. The spirits laytJie body upon the ground 
ivith the head upon the knees of Oona. Wliile 
descending from the oratory they singi\ 



86 The Countess Kathleen. 

Song. 

All the heavy days are over ; 

Leave the hody^s coloured pride 
Underneath the grass and clover 

With the feet laid side by side. 

One with her are mirth and diity^ 
Bear the gold embroidered dress- 

For she needs not her sad beauty — 
To the scented oaken press. 



Hers the kiss of mother Mary^ 
The long hair is on her face ^ 

Still she goes with footsteps wajy, 
Fnll of earth^s old timid grace. 

She goes down the floor of heaven^ 
Shining bright as a new lance^ 

And her guides are angels seven ^ 
While young stars about her dance, 

OONA. 

Who are you, sirs. 



The Countess Kathleen. 87 

First Spirit. 

We are angelical. 
She gave away her soul for others — God, 
Who sees the motive and the deed regards not, 
Bade us go down and save her from the demons, 
Who do not know the deed can never bind. 
We came and waited ; some score minutes since. 
As mortals measure time, her body died, 
For her heart broke. The demons, as two owls. 
Came sweeping hither, murmuring against God. 
We drove them hence ; and half our company 
Bore the bright spirit to the floors of peace. 
And half now give the body to your care. 
Let it have noble burial ; build a high 
And ample tomb, for she who died and lives 
Was noble in her life and in her beauty ; 
And when men gaze upon the flying dawn. 
We bid them dream of her. 

[ While he is speaking the other spirits ascend the 
steps and pass into the oratory. Last of all 
he^ too, ascends the steps and stands in the door- 
IV ay for a moment^ gazing at Oona.] 

You shall soon follow : 
Farewell ! the red rose by the seat of God, 



88 The Countess Kathleen. 

Which is among the angeHc multitude 
What she, whose body Hes here, was to men, 
Is brightening in my face, I bear no more 
The heavy burden of your mortal days. 

\_He enters the oratory^ and the bright light fades 
away. Oona /or a time remains silent^ 

OoNA \ivith a sndden shriek^ 
The Countess Kathleen js dead. 

\_The peasants come running in.'l 

Look, she is dead. 
\_She raises one of the arms and lets it fall a gain ^ 

First Peasant \_wringing his hands']. 
O, she was the white lily of the world. 

Second Peasant. 
Ah, never shall another be so good. 

Third Peasant. 
She was more beautiful than the great stars. 



The CoUxNTess Kathleen. 89 

OONA. 

Be silent. Do you dare to keen her ? Dare 
To set your grief, by mine ? Stoop — lift her up ; 
Now carry her and lay her on her bed, 
When I have keened I will go be with her, 
I will go die, for I have seen a vision. 

\_They go out carrying the body.'] 



The End. 



Legends and Lyrics. 



*' The souls are threshed and the stars threshed from their 
husks." 

(From an unpublished MS. by William Blake.) 



93 



To the Rose upon the Rood of 



I tme. 



7? ED ROSE^ proud Rose^ sad Rose of all my 

days^ 
Come near me while I sing the ancient ivays — 
Cuchnllin battling with the bitter tide ; 
The druid^ g^'ey^ wood nnrtnred^ qniet eyed^ 
Wlio cast ronnd Fergus dreams and ruin nntold ; 
And thine own sadness^ whereof stars growti old 
In dancing silver sandaled on the sea^ 
Sing in their high and lonely melody. 
Come near^ that no more blinded by man'^s fate^ 
I find under the boughs of love and hate ^ 
In all poor foolish things that live a day^ 
Eternal Beauty wandering on her way. 

Come near^ come near^ come near — Ah, leave me 

still 
A little space for the rose -breath to fill, 



94 To THE Rose upon the Rood of Time. 

Lest I no more hear common things that crave^ 
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave — 
The field monse rimning by me in the grass, 
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass, 
But seek alone to hear the strange things said 
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead, 
And learn to chatit a tongue men do not know. 
Come near — I would before my time to go, 
Sing of old Eri and the ancient ways, 
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days. 



95 



Fergus and the Druid. 



Ffrgus. 
HTHE whole day have I followed in the rocks, 
And you have changed and flowed from 
shape to shape. 
First as a raven on whose ancient wings 
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed 
A weasel moving on from stone to stone, 
And now at last you take on human shape — 
A thin grey man half lost in gathering night. 

Druid. 
What would you, king of the proud Red 
Branch kings ? 

Fergus. 
This would I say, most wise of living souls : 
Young subtle Concobar sat close by me 



96 Fergus and the Druid. 

When I gave judgment, and his words were wise, 
And what to me was burden without end, 
To him seemed easy, so I laid the crown 
Upon his head to cast away my care. 

Druid. 
What would you, king of the proud Red 
Branch kings ? 

Fergus.' 
I feast amid my people on the hill, 
And pace the woods, and drive my chariot wheels 
In the white border of the murmuring sea ; 
And still I feel the crown upon my head. 

Druid. 
What would you ? 

Fergus. 
I Avould be no more a king, 
But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours. 

Druid. 
Look on my thin grey hair and hollow cheeks, 
And on these hands that may not lift the sword. 
This body trembling like a wind-blown reed. 
No maiden loves me, no man seeks my help, 
Because I be not of the things I dream. 



Fergus and the Druid. 97 

Fergus. 
A wild and foolish labourer is a king, 
To do and do and do and never dream. 

Druid. 
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, 
Unloose the cord and they will wrap you round. 

Fergus \Jinving unloosed the cord\ 
I see my life go dripping like a stream 
From change to change ; I have been many 

things — 
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light 
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill. 
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern, 
A king sitting upon a chair of gold. 
And all these things were wonderful and great ; 
But now I have grown nothing, being all. 
And the whole world weighs down upon my 

heart — 
Ah ! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow 
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured bag ! 



98 



The Rose of the World. 

VUTHO dreamed that beauty passes like a 
dream ? 
For these red lips with all their mournful 

pride, 
Mournful that no new wonder may betide, 
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam. 
And Usna's children died. 

We and the labouring world are passing by : — 
Amid men's souls that day by day gives place, 
More fleeting than the sea's foam fickle face, 

Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, 
Lives on this lonely face. 

Bow down archangels in your dim abode : 
Before ye were or any hearts to beat. 
Weary and kind one stood beside His seat, 

He made the world, to be a grassy road 
Before her wandering feet. 



99 



The Peace of the Rose. 

T F Michael, leader of God's host 

When Heaven and Hell are met, 
Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post. 
He would his deeds forget. 

Brooding no more upon God's wars 

In his Divine homestead, 
He would go weave out of the stars 

A chaplet for your head ; 

And all folk seeing him bow down. 
And white stars tell your praise. 

Would come at last to God's great town. 
Led on by gentle ways ; 

And God would bid His warfare cease, 

Saying all things were well, 
And softly make a rosy peace, 

A peace of Heaven with Hell. 

■^ 

LOFC 



100 



The Death of Cuchullin. 



A MAN came slowly from the setting sun 

To Emer of Borda, in her clay-piled dun, 
And found her dyeing cloth with subtle care, 
And said, casting aside his draggled hair, 
*' I am Aileel, the swineherd, whom you bid 
Go dwell upon the sea cliffs, vapour hid, 
But now my years of watching are no more." 

Then Emer cast the web upon the floor, 

And stretching out her arms, red with the dye, 

Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry. 

Looking on her, Aileel, the swineherd, said 
" Not any god alive nor mortal dead, 
Has slain so mighty armies, so great kings. 
Nor won the gold that now CuchuUin brings." 



The Death of Cuchullin. ioi 

" Why do you tremble thus from feet to 

crown ? " 
Aileel, the swineherd, wept and cast him down 
Upon the web-heaped floor, and thus his word, 
" With him is one sweet throated like a bird, 
And lovelier than the moon upon the sea ; 
He made for her an army cease to be." 

** Who bade you tell these things upon my 

floor?" 
Then to her servants, " Beat him from the door 
With thongs of leather." As she spake it was ; 
And where her son, Finmolc, on the smooth grass 
Was driving cattle came she with swift feet, 
And cried out to him, " Son, it is not meet 
That you stay idling here with flocks and 

herds." 

'^ Long have I waited mother for those words. 
But wherefore now ? " 

" There is a man to die. 
You have the heaviest arm under the sky." 

^' My father," made he smiling answer then, 
" Still treads the world amid his armed men." 

" Nay, you are taller than Cuchullin, son." 



102 The Death of Cuchullin. 

*' He is the mightiest man in ship or dun." 

" Nay, he is old and sad with many wars, 
And weary of the crash of battle cars." 

" I only ask what way my journey lies, 

For God who made you bitter made you wise." 

'' The Red Branch kings a tireless banquet keep, 
Where the sun falls into the Western deep. 
Go there and dwell on the green forest rim, 
But tell alone your name and house to him 
Whose blade compels, and bid them send you 

one 
Who has a like vow from their triple dun." 

Between the lavish shelter of a wood 
And the grey tide, the Red Branch multitude 
Feasted, and with them old Cuchullin dwelt, 
And his young dear one close beside him knelt, 
And gazed upon the wisdom of his eyes. 
More mournful than the depth of starry skies. 
And pondered on the wonder of his days. 
And all around the harp string told his praise, 
And Concobar, the Red Branch king of kings. 
With his own finger touched the brazen strings. 



The Death of Cuchullin. 103 

At last Cuchullin spake, '' A young man strays 
Driving the deer along the woody ways. 
I often hear him singing to and fro, 
I often hear the sweet sound of his bow. 
Seek out what man he is." 

One went and came. 
" He bade me let all know he gives his name 
At the sword point and bade me bring him one. 
Who had a like vow from our triple dun." 

** I only of the Red Branch hosted now." 
Cuchullin cried, " have made and keep that vow." 

After short fighting in the leafy shade. 

He spake to the young man, " Is there no maid 

Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you 

round. 
Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground. 
That you come here to meet this ancient 

sword ? " 

" God only sees what doom for me lies stored." 

'* Your head a while seemed like a woman's 

head 
That I loved once." 



104 The Death of Cuchullin. 

Again the fighting sped, 
But now the war rage in Cuchulhn woke, 
And through the other's shield his long blade 

broke, 
And pierced him. 

*' Speak before your breath is done." 

*' I am Finmole, mighty CuchuUin's son." 

'*1 put you from your pain. I can no more." 

While day its burden on to evening bore, 
With head bowed on his knees Cuchullin 

staid. 
Then Concobar sent that sweet throated maid 
And she to win him, his grey hair caressed — 
In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast. 
Then Concobar, the subtlest of all men, 
Sent for his druids twenty score and ten, 
And cried, " Cuchullin will dwell there and 

brood. 
For three days more in dreadful quietude, 
And then arise, and raving slay us all. 
Go, cast on him delusions magical. 
That he may fight the waves of the loud sea." 
Near to Cuchullin, round a quicken tree, 



The Death of Cuchulun. 105 

The druids chanted, swaying in their hands 
Tall wands of alder and white quicken wands. 

In three days time he stood up with a moan, 
And he went down to the long sands alone, 
For four days warred he with the bitter tide, 
And the waves flowed above him and he died. 



E* 



io6 



The White Birds. 



T WOULD that we were, my beloved, white 

birds on the foam of the sea. 
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can 

pass by and flee ; 
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung 

low on the rim of the sky, 
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness 

that never may die. 

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew 

dabbled, the lily and rose. 
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of 

the meteor that goes. 
Or the flame of the blue star that Hngers hung 

low in the fall of the dew : 
For I would we were changed to white birds on 

the wandering foam — I and you. 



The White Birds. 107 

I am haunted by numberless islands, and many 

a Danaan shore, 
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow 

come near us no more, 
Soon far from the rose and the lily, and fret of 

the flames would we be, 
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed 

out on the foam of the sea. 



io8 



Father Gilligan. 

HTHE old priest Peter Gilligan 
Was weary night and day, 
For half his flock were in their beds 
Or under green sods lay. 

Once while he nodded on a chair, 

At the moth-hour of eve. 
Another poor man sent for him. 

And he began to grieve. 

"I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace, 

For people die and die ; " 
And after cried he, " God forgive ! 

My body spake, not I ! " 

And then, half-lying on the chair, 
He knelt, prayed, fell asleep ; 

And the moth-hour went from the fields, 
And stars began to peep. 



Father Gilligan. 109 

They slowly into millions grew, 
And leaves shook in the wind ; 

And God covered the world with shade, 
And whispered to mankind. 

Upon the time of sparrow chirp 
When the moths came once more, 

The old priest Peter Gilligan 
Stood upright on the floor. 



" Mavrone, mavrone ! the man has died, 
While I slept on the chair " ; 

He roused his horse out of its sleep, 
And rode with little care. 



He rode now as he never rode. 

By rocky lane and fen ; 
The sick man's wife opened the door : 

*' Father ! you come again ! " 

" And is the poor man dead ? " he cried. 

" He died an hour ago." 
The old priest Peter Gilligan 

In grief swayed to and fro. 



no Father Gilligan. 

" When you were gone he turned and died, 

As merry as a bird." 
The old priest Peter Gilligan 

He knelt him at that word. 

" He who hath made the night of stars 

For souls who tire and bleed 
Sent one of His great angels down 

To help me in my need. 

" He who is wrapped in purple robes, 

With planets in his care, 
Had pity on the least of things 

Asleep upon a chair." 



Ill 



Father O'Hart. 

r^ OOD Father John O' Hart 
^^ In penal days rode out 
To a shoneen who had free lands 
And his own snipe and trout. 

In trust took he John's lands— 

Sleiveens were all his race— 
And he gave them as dowers to his daughters, 

And they married beyond their place. 

But Father John went up, 

And Father John went down ; 
And he wore small holes in his shoes. 

And he wore large holes in his gown. 

All loved him, only the shoneen, 
Whom the devils have by the hair. 

From the wives, and the cats, and the children, 
To the birds in the white of the air. 



112 Father O'Hart. 

The birds, for he opened their cages 

As he went up and down ; 
And he said with a smile, " Have peace now," 

And went his way with a frown. 

But if when any one died 

Came keeners hoarser than rooks, 

He bade them give over their keening. 
For he was a man of books. 

And these were the works of John, 

When weeping score by score. 
People came into Coloony, 

For he'd died at ninety-four. 

There was no human keening ; 

The birds from Knocknarea 
And the world round Knocknashee 

Came keening in that day. 

The young birds and old birds 

Came flying, heavy, and sad, 
Keening in from Tiraragh, 

Keening from Ballinafad ; 



Father O'Hart. 113 

Keening from Innismurry, 

Nor stayed for bite or sup ; 
This way were all reproved 

Who dig old customs up. 



114 



When you are Old. 

YVTHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep , 
And nodding by the fire, take down this 
book 
And slowly read and dream of the soft look 
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. 

How many loved your moments of glad grace, 
And loved your beauty with love false or true, 
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you. 

And loved the sorrows of your changing face. 

And bending down beside the glowing bars 
Murmur, a little sad, '^ From us fled Love. 
He paced upon the mountains far above, 

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars." 



its 



The Sorrow of Love. 

nPHE quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves, 

The full round moon and the star-laden 
sky, 
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves 
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry. 

And then you came with those red mournful lips, 
And with you came the whole of the world's 
tears. 

And all the sorrows of her labouring ships. 
And all burden of her myriad years. 

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves. 
The crumbling moon, the white stars in the 
sky, 

And the loud chanting of the unquiet leaves, 
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry. 



ii6 



The Ballad of the Old Fox- 
hunter. 



" ^^OW lay me in a cushioned chair, 

And carry me ye four, 
With cushions here and cushions there, 
To see the world once more. 

" And some one from the stable bring 
My Dermot dear and brown, 

And lead him gently in a ring, 
And slowly up and down. 

" Now leave the chair upon the grass, 
Bring hound and huntsman here. 

And I on this strange road will pass 
Filled full of ancient cheer." 



The Ballad of the Old Foxhunter. 117 

His eyelids droop, his head falls low, 
His old eyes cloud with dreams ; 

The sun upon all things that grow, 
Pours round in sleepy streams. 

Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn. 

And to the armchair goes. 
And now the old man's dreams are gone. 

He smooths the long brown nose. 

And now moves many a pleasant tongue, 

Upon his wasted hands, 
For leading aged hounds and young 

The huntsman near him stands. 



'' Now huntsman Rody, blow thy horn. 

And make the hills reply." 
The huntsman loosens on the morn, 

A gay and wandering cry. 

A fire is in the old man's eyes, 

His fingers move and sway, 
And when the wandering music dies. 

They hear him feebly say. 



ii8 The Ballad of the Old Foxhunter. 

" Now huntsman Rody, blow thy horn, 

And make the hills reply." 
" I cannot blow upon my horn, 

I can but weep and sigh." 

The servants round his cushioned place 
Are with new sorrow wrung ; 

The hounds are gazing on his face, 
The old hounds and the young. 

" Now huntsman Rody, blow thy horn — " 

Die off the feeble sounds : 
And gazing on his visage worn, 

Are old and puppy hounds ; 

The oldest hound with mournful din, 
Lifts slow his wintry head : — 

The servants bear the body in — 
The hounds keen for the dead. 



119 



A Fairy Song. 

Sung by the " Good People " over the otttlaio Michael Divyer 
and his bride, who had escaped into the mountains. 

Vy/E who are old, old and gay, 
^ O so old, 

Thousands of years, thousands of years. 
If all were told : 

Give to these children new from the world 

Silence and love. 
And the long dew-dropping hours of the night 

And the stars above : 

Give to these children new from the world 

Rest far from men. 
Is anything better, anything better ? 

Tell it us then : 

Us who are old, old and gay, 

O so old, 
Thousands of years, thousands of years. 

If all were told. 






I20 



The Pity of Love, 

A PITY beyond all telling, 

Is hid in the heart of love ; 
The folk who are buying and selling, 
The stars of God where they move. 
The mouse-grey waters on flowing, 

The clouds on their journey above, 
And the cold wet winds ever blowing, 
All threaten the head that I love. 



^ 



121 



The Lake Isle of Innisfree. 

T WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
And a small cabin build there, of clay and 
wattles made ; 
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the 
honey bee. 
And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace 
comes dropping slow. 
Dropping from the veils of the morning to 
where the cricket sings ; 
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple 
glow. 
And evening full of the linnet's wings. 

I will arise and go now, for always night und day 
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by 
the shore ; 
While I stand on the roadway or on the pave- 
ments gray, 
I hear it in the deep heart's core. 



122 



A Cradle Song, 

" Coth yani me von gilli beg, 
'N heur ve thu more a creena." 

T^HE angels are bending 

Above your white bed, 
They weary of tending 
The souls of the dead. 

God smiles in high heaven 

To see you so good, 
The old planets seven 

Grow gay with his mood. 

I kiss you and kiss you, 
With arms round my own, 

Ah, how shall I miss you. 

When, dear, you have grown. 



04» 



123 



The Man who Dreamed of 
Fairyland 



\Jl E stood among a crowd at Drumahair, 
His heart hung all upon a silken dress, 
And he had known at last some tenderness 

Before earth made of him her sleepy care ; 

But when a man poured fish into a pile, 

It seemed they raised their little silver heads 
And sang how day a Druid twilight sheds 

Upon a dim, green, well-beloved isle. 

Where people love beside star-laden seas ; 
How Time may never mar their fairy vows 
Under the woven roofs of quicken boughs ; — 

The singing shook him out of his new ease. 



124 The Man who Dreamed of Fairyland. 



As he went by the sands of Lisadill, 

His mind ran all on money cares and fears, 
And he had known at last some prudent years 

Before they heaped his grave under the hill ; 

But while he passed before a plashy place, 
A lug-worm with its gray and muddy mouth 
Sang how somewhere to north or east or south 

There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race ; 

And how beneath those three times blessed skies 
A Danaan fruitage makes a shower of moons 
And as it falls awakens leafy tunes ; — 

And at that singing he was no more wise. 



Ill 

He mused beside the well of Scanavin, 

He mused upon his mockers. Without fail 
His sudden vengeance were a country tale 

Now that deep earth has drunk his body in 

But one small knot-grass growing by the rim 
Told where — ah, little, all-unneeded voice ! — 
Old Silence bids a lonely folk rejoice. 

And chaplet their calm brows with leafage dim, 



The Man who Dreamed of Fairyland. 125 

And how, when fades the sea-strewn rose of day, 
A gentle feeHng wraps them Hke a fleece, 
And all their trouble dies into its peace ; — 

The tale drove his fine angry mood away. 



IV 

He slept under the hill of Lugnagall, 

And might have known at last unhaunted sleep 
Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep, 
Now that old earth had taken man and all : 
Were not the worms that spired about his bones 
A-telling with their low and reedy cry, 
Of how God leans His hands out of the sky, 
To bless that isle with honey in His tones. 
That none may feel the power of squall and wave, 
And no one any leaf-crowned dancer miss 
Until He burn up Nature with a kiss ; — 
The man has found no comfort in the grave. 



126 



Dedication of^^ Irish Tales T 

T^HERE was a green branch hung with many 
^ a bell 
When her own people ruled in wave-worn Eri, 
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of 
faery 
— A Druid kindness — on all hearers fell. 

It charmed away the merchant from his guile, 
And turned the farmer's memory from his 

cattle, 
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle, 

For all who heard it dreamed a little while. 

Ah, Exiles wandering over many seas. 

Spinning at all times Eri's good to-morrow. 
Ah, world-wide Nation, always growing Sorrow, 

I also bear a bell branch full of ease. 



Dedication of "Irish Tales." 127 

I tore it from green boughs winds tossed and 
hurled, 
Green boughs of tossing always, weary, weary, 
I tore it from the green boughs of old Eri, 

The willow of the many-sorrowed world. 

Ah J Exiles, wandering over many lands, 

My bell branch murmurs : the gay bells bring 

laughter. 
Leaping to shake a cobweb from the rafter ; 

The sad bells bow the forehead on the hands. 

A honied ringing, under the new skies 

They bring you memories of old village faces, 
Cabins gone now, old well-sides, old dear places, 

And men who loved the cause that never dies. 



128 



The Lamentation of the Old 
Pensioner. 

T HAD a chair at every hearth, 
When no one turned to see, 
With " look at that old fellow there, 

And who may he be ? " 
And therefore do I wander on, 

And the fret lies on me. 

The road-side trees keep murmuring. 

Ah, wherefore murmur ye, 
As in the old days long gone by, 

Green oak and poplar tree ? 
The well-known faces are all gone 

And the fret lies on me. 



^ 



129 



When you are Sad. 

YVTHEN you are sad, 

The mother of the stars weeps too, 
And all her starlight is with sorrow mad, 
And tears of fire fall gently in the dew. 

When you are sad, 

The mother of the wind mourns too, 
And her old wind that no mirth ever had. 

Wanders and wails before my heart most true 

When you are sad. 

The mother of the wave sighs too. 
And her dim wave bids man be no more glad, 

And then the whole world's trouble weeps 
with you. 



-^^ 



I30 



The Two Trees. 

r> ELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, 

The holy tree is growing there ; 
From joy the holy branches start, 

And all the trembling flowers they bear. 
The changing colours of its fruit 

Have dowered the stars with merry light ; 
The surety of its hidden root. 

Has planted quiet in the night ; 
The shaking of its leafy head. 

Has given the waves their melody, 
And made my lips and music wed. 

Murmuring a wizard song for thee. 
There, through bewildered branches, go 

Winged Loves borne on in gentle strife. 
Tossing and tossing to and fro 

The flaming circle of our life. 



The Two Trees. 131 

When looking on their shaken hair, 

And dreaming how they dance and dart, 

Thine eyes grow full of tender care :— 
Beloved gaze in thine own heart. 

Gaze no more in the bitter glass 

The demons with their subtle guile 
Lift up before us as they pass, 
Or only gaze a little while ; 
For there a fatal image grows, 

With broken boughs and blackened leaves 
And roots half hidden under snows 

Driven by a storm that ever grieves. 
For all things turn to barrenness 

In the dim glass the demons hold— 
The glass of outer weariness, 

Made when God slept in times of old. 
There, through the broken branches, go 

The ravens of unresting thought ; 
Peering and flying to and fro, 

To see men's souls bartered and bought. 
When they are heard upon the wind. 

And when they shake their wings— alas ! 
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind :— 
/ Gaze no more in the bitter glass. 



132 



They went forth to the Battle^ 
but they always felL 

D OSE of all Roses, Rose of all the World, 

The tall thought-woven sails ithat flap un- 
furled 
Above the tide of hours, rise on the air, 
And God's bell buoyed to be the waters' care, 
And pressing on, or Hngering slow with fear, 
The throngs with blown wet hair are gathering 

near. 
"Turn if ye may," I call out to each one, 
" From the grey ships and battles never won. 
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace. 
For him who hears Love sing and never cease 
Besides her clean swept hearth, her quiet shade ; 
But gather all for whom no Love hath made 
A woven silence, or but came to cast 
A song into the air, and singing past 



They went forth to the Battle. 133 

To smile upon her stars ; and gather you, 
Who have sought more than is in rain or dew, 
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth. 
Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth. 
Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips, 
And wage God's battles in the long grey ships. 
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable, 
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell, 
God's bell has claimed them by the little cry 
Of their sad hearts that may not live nor die." 

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World, 

You, too, have come where the dim tides are 

hurled 
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring 
The bell that calls us on — the sweet far thing. 
Beauty grown sad with its eternity, 
Made you of us and of the dim grey sea. 
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait. 
For God has bid them share an equal fate ; 
And when at last defeated in His wars, 
They have gone down under the same white 

stars. 
We shall no longer hear the little cry 
Of our sad hearts that may not live nor die. 



134 



An Epitaph. 



T DREAMED that one had died in a strange 
place 

Near no accustomed hand, 
And they had nailed the boards above her face, 

The peasants of that land, 
And wondering, planted by her solitude 

A cypress and a yew. 
I came and wrote upon a cross of wood 

— Man had no more to do — 
" She was more beautiful than thy first love 

This lady by the trees," 
And gazed upon the mournful stars above 

And heard the mournful breeze. 



>4^ 



135 



Apologia addressed to Ireland 
in the coming days. 



f(^^0 W that I zvojild accounted he 
True brother of that company 
Who sang to sweeten Ir el ana's ivrong^ 
Ballad and story ^ rami and song ; 
Nor he I any less of the?7t^ 
Because the red rose hordered hem 
Of her whose history began 
Before God made the angelic clan^ 
Trails all about the written page^ 
For in the world'' s first blossoming age 
The light fall of her flying feet 
Made Treland^s heart begin to beat^ 
And still the starry candles flare 
To help her light foot here and there ^ 
And still the thotights of Ireland broody 
Upon her holy quietude. 



136 Apologia addressed to Ireland. 

Nor may I less be counted one 
With Davis^ Mangan^ Ferguson^ 
Because to htm who ponders well 
My rhymes more than their rhyming tell 
Of the dim wisdoms old and deep^ 
That God gives tmto man in sleep. 
For round about my table go 
The magical powers to and fro. 
In flood and fire and clay and wind^ 
They huddle from man'^ s pondering mind^ 
Yet he who treads in austere ways 
May surely meet their ancient gaze. 
Man ever journeys on with them 
After the red rose boi'dered hem. 
Ah^ fairies^ dancing under the moon^ 
A drtiid land^ a druid tune ! 

While still I may I write out true 
The love 1 lived ^ the dream I knciv. 
From our birthday until we die., 
Is but the winking of an eye. 
And lue^ our singing and our love.. 
The mariners of night above ^ 
And all the wizard things that go 
About my table to and fro^ 
Are passing 07i to where may be., 



Apologia addressed to Ireland. 137 

In triiWs C07isuming ecstasy^ 
No place for love and dream at all^ 
For God goes by with white foot-fall. 
I cast my heart into my rhyines^ 
That yon in the dim coming times 
May know how my heart went with them 
After the red rose bordered hem. 



139 



Notes. 



" The Countess Kathleen:' The play is founded on a 
West of Ireland folk tale. 

Page 1 6, line 12. " Glauber " is a Sligo word for thick 
and clinging mud. 

Page 19, line i. The horned owl is associated in popular 
belief with evil fairies. 

Page 20, line 8. The "Pooka" is a spirit that rarely 
takes human form, but appears commonly as a bull, horse, 
goat, eagle, or ass. The " Sowlth " is a formless, luminous 
apparition. 

Page 32, line 6. Oisin, the poet of the Finian age, and 
son to Fin-ma-cool, crossed the sea on an enchanted horse 
with Niam, his fairy bride, and lived three hundred years in 
Tier-nan-oge, or fairyland. 

Page 32, line 13. Fergus, poet of the Conorian age, had 
been king of all Ireland, but gave up his throne that he 
might live at peace hunting in the forests. 

Page 39, lines II-13. Adene was a famous legendary 
queen who went away from the world and dwelt among the 
'•shee," as the fairies are called in the old poems and in 
contemporary folk lore. 

Page 40, line 5, " Danaan " is a common abbreviation 
of Tuatha-de-Danaan, the name of the gods of Celtic Ireland 
in old days, and of the fairies in medieval literature, and 
modern folk lore. 



140 Notes. 

Page 47, line 2. A " bonyeen" is a little pig. 

Page 50, line 2. A "sheogue" is a diminutive, and 
means " a little fairy." 

Page 55, line 2. A " tevish" is an earth-bound and earth- 
wandering ghost. 

Page 63, line 5. "Shannachus" is a Gaelic word meaning 
" stories." It is, or was a common word among the peasantry, 
both Gaelic and English speaking. 

P^S^ 73> li^i& 9' "Red Branch" was the name of the 
circle of warriors who preceded the Finian circle by about 
two hundred years, according to bardic chronology, and 
gathered round " Concobar " or " Conor," as the later circle 
gathered round Fin. 

" To the Rose iipon the Rood of TimeJ'^ The rose is a 
favourite symbol with the Irish poets. It has given a name 
to more than one poem, both Gaelic and English, and is 
used, not merely in love poems, but in addresses to Ireland, 
as in De Vere's line, "The little black rose shall be red at 
last," and in Mangan's "Dark Rosaleen." I do not, of 
course, use it in this latter sense. 

" The Death of Cuc/mllin." Cuchullin (pronounced 
Cuhoolin) was the great warrior of the Conorian cycle. My 
poem is founded on a West of Ireland legend given by 
Curtin in "Myths and Folk lore of Ireland." The bardic 
tale of the death of Cuchullin is very different. 

" The White Birds.'" The birds of fairyland are white as 
snow. The " Danaan shore " is, of course, Tiej'-nan-oge, or 
fairyland. 

^^ Father Gilligan." This ballad is founded on the Kerry 
version of an old folk tale. 

'■'Father O'Hart.'^ This ballad is founded on the story 
of a certain " Father O'Hart," priest of Coloony in the 
last century, told by the present priest of Coloony in his 
most interesting "History of Ballisodare and Kelvarnet." 
The robbery of the lands of Father O'Hart was one of 



Notes. 141 

those incidents which occurred sometimes, though but rarely, 
during the time of the penal laws. Catholics, who were 
forbidden to own landed property, evaded the law by giving 
some honest Protestant nominal possession of their estates. 
There are instances on record in which poor men were 
nominal owners of unnumbered acres, 

" The Ballad of the Old Fox Hunter:' This ballad is 
founded on an incident — probably in its turn a transcript 
from Tipperary tradition — in Kickham's " Knockangow. " 

" The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner:' This small 
poem is little more than a translation into verse of the very 
words of an old Wicklow peasant. 



